


Moral Failures

by manic_intent



Series: Invariant Failures [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Fix-It, Full spoilers, M/M, Post-Canon, That fix-it AU which changes the ending of Kingsman:GC a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 20:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12175941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “Why are you called Agent Whiskey instead of Agent Tequila?” Harry asked during the intermission.Whiskey rolled his eyes. “That’s stereotyping, that is.” At least Whiskey had deigned to dress elegantly for the night, in a long camel coat over a black blazer and tailored gray trousers. “For the record, I’m Chilean-American. Tequila, being the beverage, is made from the blue agave plant ‘round the city of Tequila, Mexico. Which is nowhere near Chile, by the way.”“Agent Chicha? Pisco?” Harry smiled faintly. “Bigoteado?”“You looking to get shot in the face one more time?” Whiskey glowered at him.





	Moral Failures

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Kingsman: Golden Circle on Friday and was... hm. I had mixed feelings? 
> 
> S
> 
> P
> 
> O
> 
> I
> 
> L
> 
> E
> 
> R
> 
> S
> 
> As a Hartwin fan I did love some of the film, but I'm also a big Pedro Pascal fan so some of the other parts of the film were just =_= to me. Also, that really, really creepy fingering scene and ergh. So here is a sort of fix it for the ending.

“Why are you called Agent Whiskey instead of Agent Tequila?” Harry asked during the intermission.

Whiskey rolled his eyes. “That’s stereotyping, that is.” At least Whiskey had deigned to dress elegantly for the night, in a long camel coat over a black blazer and tailored gray trousers. “For the record, I’m Chilean-American. Tequila, being the beverage, is made from the blue agave plant ‘round the city of Tequila, Mexico. Which is nowhere near Chile, by the way.” 

“Agent Chicha? Pisco?” Harry smiled faintly. “Bigoteado?”

“You looking to get shot in the face one more time?” Whiskey glowered at him. “I inherited the codename, same as you did, I reckon.” They were in a VIP box seat overlooking the stage, which was lit up for the intermission. Elton had retired backstage, and the band had lit off for drinks. Whiskey looked over at the red velvet curtains, then over at the ranks of people down at the stalls, milling about. “Not that I’m ungrateful,” Whiskey said, “but I’m kinda surprised that you gave me one of your tickets.” 

“Not a fan of Elton John?”

“He’s all right. Just thought, well.” Whiskey gestured at his forehead. There was a matching scar above his brow on both sides from two shots to the head. One from Harry, one from Eggsy. “Thought you were going to ask your boy.”

“He’s not my boy.” Harry said, and it no longer hurt to say it. He’d been the best man at Eggsy’s wedding, only a week or so ago. “You were at the wedding.”

“Ahh yeah. Sorry about Tequila. Ginger and I tried to wrangle him into a suit, but we thought he was literally gonna cry when we brought out the cufflinks, so we gave up.” 

“Doubt the groom or the bride were in any state to notice.”

“Or you, huh?” Whiskey smiled, merciless. There was a snakelike coldness to Whiskey that still unsettled Harry’s instincts, but it had been one cored by a bone-deep wound rather than betrayal. “C’mon. Stop evading.”

“I suppose it’s an apology of sorts,” Harry conceded. “For shooting you in the head.”

“Nah. The nanotech’s clearly still working out its kinks. I mean. _I_ tried to kill the two of you when I got reset.” Whiskey grimaced. “It made sense at the time. Pretty sure I hit on Ginger as well.” 

“You hit on her again the second time,” Harry said. He’d nearly been punched when he tried to intervene, up until Ginger had stuck a photograph in Whiskey’s face. And _then_ Whiskey had tried to strangle Harry, at which point Ginger had kicked Whiskey in the balls and sedated him smartly with a syringe to the neck. “She told me you voted against her several times for an Agent position, by the way. Do you have something against women as agents?”

“‘Course not. I voted in favour of Yiling Law. That’s Agent Brandy. Sharpshooter, hella good with anything high caliber. Ginger’s decent with firearms and all right hand-to-hand, but there’s nothing spectacular in her arms tests.” 

“That’s no reason to vote against an agent. She’s clearly excellent with computers, a fine trait for a modern agent.” 

Whiskey sniffed. “She doesn’t have a killing instinct. If I’d tried to hit on Brandy she’d have gutted me with a penknife.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “One would say that not having homicidal tendencies is also a good trait for a modern agent.”

“Yeah?” Whiskey chuckled, low and rough. “Y’know why I didn’t hold being shot in the head against you? ‘Cos you were right. You thought something was wrong and you acted. You didn’t dither like your boy. It’s what I would’ve done. Take someone down, sort it out later.” 

“Eggsy’s a fine agent.”

“Oh, he’s good at wetwork. But I wouldn’t say he’s a fine agent. Too many things getting in the way. You should talk him into retiring. Now he’s some Lord or something, yeah? He can spend his days riding horses and making babies.” 

“Agent Champ said something similar the other day.”

“’Course he did. Can’t really be having Prince Eggsy of Sweden or whatever he’s called now running around taking contracts. Probably turn into an international incident. Awkward all round.” 

Harry _had_ thought of that, but he held his peace, irritating as it was to do so. “Hmm.”

“Besides,” Whiskey said quietly, nodding at the audience as they filed slowly back in, “you know this job ain’t for people with a normal life. Wife, kids, dog, the works? That’s asking for trouble. Even if no royalty was concerned.” 

“You had a wife once.”

“ _Before_ I was an agent.” Whiskey’s face softened. “She was a fine woman. Had a hard life growing up. Her family was undocumented. Her mom and pop lived in fear of getting a knock on the door in the middle of the night. But she wasn’t afraid of anything. That was the fucking problem, really,” he said, bitterly. 

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds.”

“You weren’t the one who shot her.” The defenses were back: Whiskey grinning, sharp and merciless. “I shot the ones who did. Then a few years later the kids of the people I shot tried to come for me. Cycle of violence, around and around.” Whiskey traced an arc in the air with his elegant fingers, his amusement genuine, all predatory humour. “Life’s funny that way.”

A weapon for hire could afford little space for sentiment. Harry understood that. Eggsy never would—for which Harry was, perhaps, a little envious. Rueful. He knew he was just as important to Eggsy as the Princess Tilde, as Eggsy’s mother, his sister, but in a way that Harry both treasured and regretted. Standing beside Eggsy on the wrong side of the altar, so close and a thousand miles away had ached, ached and ached. And soon the pain too would ebb and Harry would mourn its passing, becoming less human again, more of a gun. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” Whiskey said. 

Thankfully, the theatre went dark before Harry could force a response. The afterparty was a blur. Harry was introduced to Elton’s husband, a handsome man close to Harry’s age, happy and cheerful and in love. Somehow that also hurt to watch. He lost track of Whiskey, had one champagne far too many, and muzzily remembered being poured into a car. Someone was laughing in his ear, low and smoky. 

Harry woke up on a couch that he did not recognise. Disoriented, at the sound of a shuffling step behind him he sat up, drawing and cocking his pistol. Over in the kitchen, Whiskey laughed, the sound familiar, still smoky, dressed down in a loose shirt and old jeans, playfully putting up his hands. No hat. “I surrender. Do you want breakfast?” 

Grinning as he was, Whiskey’s eyes were hard, his feet braced on the ground, ready to duck for cover. Harry decocked and holstered the gun. “Pardon me. That was awfully rude.” 

“Not a problem. Long night. Bathroom’s that way. I put out a spare towel and a toothbrush.” 

Slowly, Harry got up. Penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park. Beautiful, minimal furniture, much of it glass and steel, with tasteful bookshelves that bisected the large room into kitchen and dining, living room, a garden with a pool. There was a mezzanine floor, a baby grand piano in a corner of the living space, a double bass, a guitar. The couch was an elegant L-shaped bar of pale leather around a mahogany coffee table. The furniture had been placed tactically. Lines of sight, sections with cover, likely trick floorboards here and there. Harry brushed his teeth, surveyed the suspiciously well-stocked bathroom cabinet, washed up the best he could, and emerged to pancakes and crispy bacon. Thankfully, he wasn’t one for hangovers. 

Whiskey shooed an old orange cat off a chair, and it shot Harry a surprisingly evil eye for a small animal as it padded off towards the garden. “That’s Chupacabra. Belonged to the wife. Her joke. He’s an asshole.”

“Duly noted.” Sitting down to a breakfast that had been made for him by someone who hadn’t been paid to do so was novel. Harry ate slowly, even though the pancakes were too sweet and the bacon was too charred and for some hellish reason Whiskey’s pantry didn’t have tea. There was coffee instead, served black and thick. 

“You’re quiet again,” Whiskey said. 

“I’m still shocked that there are people in civilised countries who don’t drink tea in the mornings.” 

“Ha, ha.” Whiskey wasn’t fooled, though he played along. “Tea’s just a piss-weak version of coffee.”

“Fighting words, my friend.”

“Guess I should be glad that you’re just a sad drunk.” 

Harry pulled a face. “I’m terribly sorry about all this trouble.” 

“Oh no,” Whiskey said, cheerful again. “Think you needed to get all that out of your system. Friends dying, life changing, world saving, watching your boy get married to someone else, eh?”

“It was a nice wedding,” Harry said evenly, refusing to be baited. 

“I know. I was there, remember?” Whiskey wasn’t intimidated in the least. “I even gave them a present.” 

“What present?”

“Toaster. Tequila told me it was traditional. Think he also bought a toaster.” 

“Why on earth would anyone need two toasters?”

Whiskey shrugged. “When _I_ got married, we got four toasters. It’s just a thing. Like how normal people drink coffee instead of tea.” He smirked.

“If you’re trying to annoy me, it’s working,” Harry said, though he finished the bacon and choked down the coffee. It wasn’t so bad. Almost like having friends. Whiskey shot him a long, considering look. 

“So what do you do when you’re off duty?”

“Read. Visit museums. Go to the theatre. You?”

“Manage junior agents. And the New York branch of the business. Statesman doesn’t have a difference between agents and bean counters. Our agents are business people. Every sense of the word.” 

“Sounds unnecessarily complicated,” Harry said, though he _had_ been surprised when the Arthur-like old man in Kentucky had introduced himself as _Agent_ Champagne. 

“Keeps people busy. Would go stir crazy otherwise. ‘Sides, nowadays, the legit part of our business makes a hella lot more money. Less fun, though.” 

Harry’s life was a stretch of empty days, pockmarked by work, and with that he had once been content. Eggsy had been the end of all that. But Harry couldn’t begrudge Eggsy this. He regretted nothing. In a way, he was glad. It had not been difficult to be glad, even in the chapel, with the young couple radiant and in love. 

“Hey.” Whiskey nudged up against him. Harry stiffened as their knees pressed together under the kitchen table, but he didn’t jerk away. “Sure you’re all right?” 

“Are _you_ all right?” Harry countered. “You were shot in the head once more than I was.” 

“What doesn’t kill you, and all that,” Whiskey said, and now his grin was sly and playful and Harry recognised the invitation for what it was, an unsentimental challenge, from one weapon to another. He leaned in. The kiss was just as unsentimental, even as Whiskey’s grin widened and he pressed closer, squeezing Harry’s thigh. “C’mon,” Whiskey said, as they parted. “I went to an Elton John concert for you. _And_ made you breakfast.” 

“So you _don’t_ like Elton John.”

“I like the man well enough, it’s his music that puts me to sleep.”

“We really should have left you to die,” Harry said, with mock regret. Whiskey laughed, climbing heavily onto Harry’s lap, nipping his jaw. 

“Surprised that you didn’t, actually.”

“What?”

“Shoot me down, put me in that mincer,” Whiskey said, facetious.

Harry leaned back, bemused. “You’re a senior agent. Suffering from similar effects of psychosis from the Lord knows what experimental medical procedure was used on the both of us. You Statesman agents would've done the same for me if I'd reacted that way and had to be put down.” Looking back now, Harry was a little surprised that he hadn't been benched after he'd first shot Whiskey.

Whiskey chuckled lazily. “A white man they’d have taken home, patched up, strapped down, done tests, made their excuses. A brown man, who knows. Bet you could’ve killed me and Champ wouldn’t have blinked. Probably would’ve even offered you my seat.”

Harry shuddered. He kissed Whiskey again instead of answering, because there was no answer he could give that could satisfy. They _had_ come close to leaving Whiskey to bleed to death. Left to himself, Harry probably would’ve. It had been Eggsy who had ended up setting the wrap over Whiskey’s face. He’d felt sorry for him. 

“I mean, if he’d been working for Poppy or the President I would’a said, fuck him,” Eggsy had said. “But I think he’s doing that thing, y’know, like you on the mountain, processing old shit badly, probably had to remember his wife to get shocked out of forgetting.” 

Harry wouldn’t have felt sorry for Whiskey. Or tried to understand. Another death, another death, another death. One of many, bookmarking empty days. He kneaded Whiskey’s hips, his graceful thighs, pressing into the warmth of a man who would have died if Harry had been left to his own devices. Intimacy like this felt stolen, obscene. His breaths grew unsteady between them as Whiskey’s kisses grew hungry, insistent, his hands pulling impatiently at Harry’s jacket, his shirt. They stumbled over to the couch, shedding clothes in an uneven arc. Long and lean, Whiskey was gorgeous pinned beneath Harry, and grinning, he knew it, stretching to show off corded muscle, marked by scars. 

“I’ll do you a favour, old man,” Whiskey said, twisting to flip them around, flashing teeth. He peeled Harry’s shirt open, kissing a wet path downwards before Harry could ask, and Harry groaned, twisting his fingers into Whiskey’s hair, urging him on. Whiskey was efficient rather than enthusiastic, ruthless instead of tender, shucking Harry’s belt, tugging down his trousers and underwear.

“Not bad,” Whiskey said, and licked a fat line up Harry’s cock, teasing the tip with a little swirl of his tongue. Harry shuddered again, and spread his thighs. 

Whiskey laughed, noiseless, a ghost-sound that burned warmth against the root of Harry’s cock, that made his thickening flesh twitch. Whiskey spat on his fingers and stroked, making a tight fist and tugging, trigger finger calluses tucking up under ridges, flicking over the slit, then again, as Harry bucked and moaned. Whiskey’s moustache was ticklish against Harry’s thighs, his belly, his mouth hungry and hot as he sucked Harry in with a greedy purr, absolutely shameless. He growled and dug his nails into Harry’s hip as Harry jerked, then he tugged until Harry started to rock against his mouth, pressing deeper with each thrust until he was stretching Whiskey’s throat, his heels digging against Whiskey’s back. 

Long and slow. Whiskey wasn’t in a hurry and he let Harry know it, let Harry use his mouth with a lover’s slow presumption, let Harry stroke his cheek and card trigger fingers through his hair. The next best thing to the truth. Harry had thought it would hurt, shocky with pleasure and peeled open, but somehow it didn’t. He felt lightheaded instead, as though something had dislodged and fallen free, as though he could breathe again. His good eye stung when he shook and spilled, and he didn’t watch as Whiskey licked him clean. 

Whiskey nudged Harry’s hand away when Harry tried to reach for him, slouching down against him, his cock hard against the narrow valley between Harry’s thigh and pelvis. He looked unconcerned. “Think you needed that,” he said, with a cheeky smirk. 

“Much obliged,” Harry said. “And I’m not against returning the favour.”

“Englishmen,” Whiskey said, chuckling, warm and low and maybe a little fond. The man was a fantastic liar. He mimicked Harry’s accent. “‘I’m not against returning the favour’.” 

Harry sniffed, and twisted to flip them around, and sunk his teeth against Whiskey’s throat. He’d guessed right: the man bucked against him with a breathy yelp. Harry’s spit was flecked with blood, and Whiskey bared his teeth as he closed soiled fingers over Whiskey’s cock and pulled, watching Whiskey thrash, curse, buck against him, and eventually yowl, a wounded predator’s hoarse cry of rage and grief. His eyes glittered. Harry kissed him and rubbed semen and blood and spit between them, arching into fingernails that scoured down his back until they stilled against his spine. They were mourning different people for different reasons, but the shared grief made them more than strangers. 

“There’s a decent cafe a block down,” Whiskey said, by way of a ceasefire, later in the morning in the garden as Harry nursed his freshly scratched hand. “Also, I told you that the cat is an asshole.” 

Harry, who secretly loved all animals great and small, got reluctantly to his feet. Chupacabra glared at him under a deck chair by the pool, tail swishing. “Maybe he just needs to get used to me,” Harry said, unthinking. 

Whiskey tilted his head, but before Harry could offer a retraction for the presumption, or change the subject, he snorted. “It’s your blood, man. C’mon. This cafe does the weird thing with the birdcage dishes of tiny cakes and sandwiches. That’s British, yeah?”

Harry was mildly appalled. “We can’t have afternoon tea. It’s not yet even time for lunch.” 

This got him a roll of the eyes. “Welcome to New York. Let’s go. You’re paying.” 

“I really doubt the scones will be up to scratch,” Harry said, though he followed Whiskey out of the garden.

“Dunno. Never had one of those before.” 

“…Really? _Americans_.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> \--  
> Okay... relapse over... back to my original fiction deadlines.


End file.
